


In the mouth of the wolf

by QueenOfSecrets



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Death, F/M, Italian Character(s), Italian Mafia, Movie: John Wick: Chapter 2, New York City, Reader-Insert, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Stress, Subways, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22065322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfSecrets/pseuds/QueenOfSecrets
Summary: You've seen some strange things on the New York City subway. This takes the cake.
Relationships: Ares & Santino D'Antonio, Santino D'Antonio & John Wick, Santino D'Antonio/Original Female Character(s), Santino D'Antonio/Reader, Santino D'Antonio/You
Comments: 73
Kudos: 186





	1. 1. the subway

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [serpente.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17294774) by [cl3rks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cl3rks/pseuds/cl3rks). 



> Inspired by "serpente." by Cl3rks, because I was so motivated to know what happened next that I ended up writing my own version. Cheers!
> 
> I'm new to Ao3, so any feedback & suggestions are super appreciated.

When you were a kid, you had been obsessed with the New York City subway system. You loved staring at the colorful maps. The metallic _screech_ of the trains made the hair on your neck stand up. You used to chatter excitedly about what would happen if two of them accidentally went on the same track and crashed into each other.

_You're a morbid kid,_ your mom used to say affectionately. _Yep!_ You would agree (you had no idea what “morbid” meant).

Now you lived in the city full-time and found public transportation decidedly less magical.

Once, you watched a rat drag a pigeon down into the shady depths of a subway station. A whole pigeon.

So you were familiar with a certain level of shadiness on the subway. Usually just drunk people, or scam artists, or drunk scam artists. A fair amount of people who were homeless, too, but to be honest, they didn't bother you much. They kept to themselves, and seemed to respect that you did, too.

It was the drunk people you watched for. Drunk men, to be specific.

In general, you tried to keep your wits about you. You had pepper spray in one pocket and a knife in your purse, for whatever good it would do you. Your mom had given those to you, back when you had first moved out after college, along with the classic bright pink whistle. You hadn't used any of it, except the knife, once, which a friend had used to open beer bottles at a party. You had since lost the whistle, you weren't really sure where, but it was definitely around somewhere... Buried in the storage under your bed, perhaps, or in that drawer in your kitchen...

You were just thinking about that whistle again when you realized you had lost track of time. You weren't sure which stop you were at. You checked your phone – _1:30am –_ and tucked it away with a sigh. Burning the candle at both ends for the second time this week.

The subway slowed and came to a stop, and you groaned. According to the metallic announcer, you were about two stops past the point where you needed to get off and switch lines. Go figure. You stepped out onto the platform, crossed to the other side, and waited for the next train.

The place was almost completely empty, save for you and a group of well-dressed businessmen at the other end of the platform. It struck you first that they were wearing expensive suits - expensive enough that they didn't need to take the subway - and second that they were definitely not speaking English. Italian, maybe? It was a language you recognized, if only in pieces, but it was hard to hear so far away. Then that familiar _screech_ of the subway was echoing through the tunnel, and you were watching for the incoming train. God, you couldn't wait to get home.

One of the men turned to leave, motioned with his hand, and a flash of green from his cufflinks brought your attention back to the group. His gaze suddenly met yours, a similar warm green, and you caught that the cufflinks were meant to match his eyes.

You caught this right as a slight figure behind him abruptly grabbed one of the men and shoved him, screaming, directly into the path of the train.

He hit the wall, fell onto the tracks, and you didn't see what happened next because you turned around and ran.


	2. 2. forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Move forward, was all you could think. Go, go.

You heard the subway screech hideously behind you and the sounds of heavy footsteps following you down the platform. Green lines pointed to the exit, like a beacon of hope, and you sprinted towards it in an adrenaline-boosted haze.

Somehow, two of the men in suits had gotten there first. They jogged down the stairs, shouting something in Italian to those at the other end, and something like desperation rose in your throat. You ducked around the nearest corner, a dead-end with the service elevator.

God, what a stupid move.

The echoing footsteps slowed, and you heard voices speaking in Italian again. One cut through them, calling to you - “ _Passerotta,”_ he beckoned, “ _Passerotta..._ you cannot hide forever.”

_Christ._ You had about a snowball's chance in hell of actually getting out of there, but you jabbed the elevator button nonetheless. _Move forward,_ was all you could think. _Go, go._ Miraculously, the doors opened quickly, accompanied by a mortifying _ding_.

You slid in, pressing yourself into the farthest corner, and stared at the ceiling. Most elevators had an emergency hatch, right? An exit through the top? You had seen it in Die Hard or something. It was in the movies. There had to be one.

There was some sort of locked, rusty panel at the top of the elevator, and you focused on that. One foot on the railing, lifting yourself into the corner, you pried desperately at it, then gave it an angry blow. _Fuck –_ it remained closed.

The elevator gave another mortifying _ding_ , doors re-opening, and you found yourself face-to-face with the same dark-haired, slight figure that had just thrown a man in front of a subway.


	3. 3. caught below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In your wildest dreams, you could not have expected to be in this situation.

Fresh out of miracles, it would seem. It didn't take long to wrestle you down, and by then the one with the tattoos – the one who had killed a man – had you in a vice-like grip. You clutched the arm around your neck, strong as iron, and wished you had gotten out of the elevator faster.

“ _Passerotta_ , what a chase,” said the voice again, and then the green-eyed man was standing in the doorway, dangling your purse in one hand. You blinked at him. It must have fallen off your shoulder.

He stepped closer, his head tilted as he fixed his sparkling eyes on you. “What a pretty little bird.”

“She's quite lovely,” you managed, still prying at the arm around your neck, “When she isn't crushing my trachea.”

The green-eyed man gave a wry laugh. Not what he meant, and you both knew it. With a wave of his hand, the grip on you loosened, and you found yourself breathing again. You pulled yourself to your feet, chest heaving.

 _God, the subway smells._ The man laughed a second time, and you realized you had said that last part out loud.

“It is not a pleasant place, no,” he agreed. He handed your purse to the one who had been holding you, gave you a summary look, and hit the top floor on the elevator. The doors closed and the machine heaved to life.

You rubbed your throat, inching away from them both. In your wildest dreams, you could not have expected to be in this situation. Especially not alive. How were you alive right now?

The silence dragged on, and you stared at the man's collar, until you worked up the courage to look at those green eyes again.

“Are you going to kill me?” you asked bluntly. This earned you a chuckle, but no answer. It wasn't particularly encouraging. “...Can I at least not die in the subway?” you amended.

He laughed again. “Is there somewhere else you would prefer to die, _passerotta?_ ”

“I'd prefer not to die at all.”

“That is a sentiment we both share.”

It was your turn to laugh now, a tired, almost exasperated noise.

The elevator finally came to a halt with a ding, and the doors slid open. Two more men in suits were already there, waiting, the only life in the deserted subway station. You stepped out, eyes scanning the shuttered news-stands and bodegas for anyone else.

The silent one with the tattoos stepped closer to return your purse, and you instinctively jolted back, your shoulders meeting the wall. The tilt of her mouth told you she was laughing at you, but it didn't make you any less tense. Carefully, you accepted your bag.

She threw her smirk back at the man, who looked similarly amused. “It is so late at night,” he said. “Please. I would not be a gentleman if I did not see you home.”

You blinked at him. “See me home,” you echoed, a touch incredulous. You wanted nothing less.

“Of course. I insist.” He turned to walk away, not waiting for you to answer. You glanced at his silent partner and she raised an eyebrow.

You inhaled deeply. You joined him.


	4. 4. -- and taxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My mother used to say there are only two things in life that cannot be changed. Death, and Taxes.

Behind you, the two other guards fell into line. The man's silent partner stepped away for a moment, signaled something, and further down the corridor, you caught sight of two more people. Sanitation workers of some sort, rolling a large bin. They gave a familiar wave to her. Meanwhile, up ahead, two more men in suits waited patiently by the subway entrance.

The scope of the situation was beginning to dawn on you.

You walked in silence for a moment, processing, until you noticed the lapse in conversation. The silence stretched. It was almost unbearable.

“Have you given it much thought?” you said finally, because you had nothing else to say.

“Given what much thought, _passerotta_?” he asked.

“Where you would like to die, I mean.”

It was a weird question, but you had nothing else to ask. He gave you a sidelong glance. “You are a morbid woman.”

“So I've been told.”

You walked in silence for another moment. “Have _you_ given it much thought?” he finally asked.

“I suddenly find it is all I can think about.”

His eyes sparkled, amused, and next to him, his partner shot him a grin. “Perhaps... in my childhood home in Italy,” he said at last. “I'd like to die peacefully, in my old age.”

“In your sleep?” you guessed.

“No,” he amended, all Italian bravado, “I'd like to know what is coming for me.”

It was your turn to give him a wry smile. “That is a sentiment we both share.”

He chuckled. “And you? Aside from 'not in the subway?'”

“I don't know,” you started slowly, not sure how to answer. It wasn't something you had given much thought to until tonight. Certainly not with the same stakes. You wished you could say, _in the arms of my lover_ , or, _surrounded by my family._ The truth was, you just didn't want to die alone. “I don't know. I just... wish my Mom could be there with me.”

It was a raw and painful thing to say, like poking at a bruise. But it was true.

He paused. You had reached the exit, the limnal space where the cold air from the outside blew in to mingle with the stale air caught below. Eventually, he spoke. “So do I.” And for a moment, just between the two of you, he looked... sad. Raw. He looked the way you felt.

But it was gone just as quickly as it had come. He continued up the stairs to the street, and you followed.


	5. 5. not to be discussed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Were you stupid enough to get in an unmarked SUV with several armed men and an apparent crime boss?

At street-level, you felt a little more comfortable. Like you could run, if you wanted to, and there would be somewhere to go. It must have been a little after 2am, because there were a few more people around. Drunk stragglers, bartenders heading home. A homeless woman peered at you from next to the subway entrance. Sharp features and sharp eyes.

The man paused to hand her a coin. “For your silence, _madonna mia_ ,” he murmured, clasping her hand in both of his own.

“That was... unexpected of you,” you said, as you both stepped away.

“I am full of surprises,” he said, and flashed you a devious smile.

You laughed again, surprising yourself, and the sound echoed softly in the night like a bell. “That's for sure.”

A black SUV was idling at the curb, waiting. “I have promised to see you home,” he declared, as one of his men opened the door. “Where exactly would that be?”

You slowed, then stopped where you were. A black, unmarked SUV, four massive men with guns, and two people who were most definitely involved in organized crime. Getting into that car seemed like a really, really stupid decision. The movie _Taken_ came to mind.

“If I get into that car,” you asked quietly, “Where will I get out?”

The man paused, too, shrugged. “Wherever you like,” he said casually. He nodded dismissively at his guards, who peeled off to the other side of the car, and then his gaze met yours. “I have promised to see you home safely.”

The addition of that last word was not lost on you. Were you stupid enough to get in an unmarked SUV with several armed men and an apparent crime boss?

Yes, yes you were.

You slid into the leather seats and shivered as the warm air met your skin. A symphony played quietly over the speakers. There was a faint smell of cognac.

You may have been stupid enough to get into the car, but you were not stupid enough to tell them where you really lived. You had a friend who worked at an upscale hotel in Manhattan, not too far away, and you directed them there. Let them think you were a tourist, or a business traveler.

The man sat across from you with his silent partner, and you tried not to squirm under her gaze. She had apparently taken your knife when she had your purse, and was now using it to pare her nails. Without breaking eye contact.

The man, for his part, was otherwise charming. Despite his partner's unwavering attention, you managed to make small talk. He spoke with you about the weather, the city, classical music. You had a shared love of Vivaldi. He commented about the food in the city and discussed the merits of vintage red wine. You found yourself relaxing.

Still, you felt an immeasurable relief when the car turned a corner and the hotel was in sight. Eager to be free, you gripped the door handle as the car came to a stop.

“ _Passerotta,_ one last thing, _”_ the man said. He leaned forward and placed his hand on top of yours, stopping you. His eyes glittered darkly. “The things you have seen tonight. They are not to be discussed.”

You swallowed heavily, glanced at his partner. Her intimidating gaze was still leveled at you, and she toyed with your knife in her hands. You managed a nod. “Of course.”

“Good, _”_ he said, with another of his cat-like smiles.

Then his hand released yours and you opened the door. 

As you climbed out of the car, he called after you one last time in Italian - “ _Ciao, bella – see you soon.”_

You resisted the urge to shout back something rude. Instead, you nodded and pretended not to understand. The Italian you knew was mostly made up of insults, and you'd rather make it out of this with your head.

You forced yourself not to run up the steps to the hotel, and kept your pace leisurely once you reached the doors. They clicked reassuringly behind you, but it wasn't until you reached the other end of the lobby that you allowed yourself to break into a run. You made a bee-line for the service entrance.

Mercifully, no one was there to stop you. The back was more-or-less deserted. You darted down the service corridors, through the kitchen storage, out the back entrance - and into the first taxi you saw.

This time, you told the bewildered driver your real address. Shivering in the backseat, you watched the road behind you, paranoid that at any moment a black SUV would roll into sight and follow. None did. Still, on arrival, you had your driver loop the block once before you paid him and dashed into your apartment.

Once upstairs, you locked your door and shoved a chair under the handle for good measure.

Alone, finally alone, you collapsed into bed and allowed yourself to process what happened. You went through alternating waves of horror, numbness, hope, and anxiety. Spoons, purring loudly, came to sniff at you. She nudged her soft head under your hand, then gently curled on top of you. The warmth and the vibration helped with the shock, and you felt yourself calm down. Tears came, a heavy release of emotion, and then, eventually, sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the kudos!! Apologies for the long-ish break between updates. My life got a bit busy with some work & traveling, but I'm going to try to get at least one chapter up per week. Hope you enjoy!


	6. 6. three months later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It paid the bills, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to refer to our lead character as "Nora," rather than "Y/N." I know that's something of a break from tradition, so I hope you'll stick with me regardless!

It had been three months since the incident in the subway. Six weeks since you stopped looking over your shoulder. The first two weeks had been the worst, but over time, you forced yourself to move on. You installed heavy duty deadbolts on your front door. You took self defense classes. You slept at night. Mostly.

You only saw the Italian and his silent partner in your dreams. No unmarked cars looped your block or lurked around corners. The few times you took the subway, no one lingered around to follow you home. Perhaps they had lost interest. Perhaps they had left you alone.

You eventually went back to work. It took a couple of sick days before you had the courage to leave your apartment, but eventually, you couldn't avoid it. The kitchen was the same as always. Nikola shouted curses in Italian about his restaurant, Mads shouted back in German about his kitchen, and you dodged the constantly wandering hands of the station chef, Ruben.

 _Fuck_ Ruben, by the way.

It took some level of perpetual vigilance to always be just out of his reach, but you managed. Sometimes you wondered whether you wouldn't be a more skilled chef if you could just focus on your fucking job instead.

It paid the bills, anyways. And added good experience to your resume. A year or-so working in this kitchen would do well for your career. You had higher aspirations, dreamed of Michelin stars, but that was further down the road. For now, you needed somewhere local, closer to your mother, that could pay for the slowly mounting medical bills. That didn't give you a lot of options, so you'd had to settle for the place where someone was always trying to slap your ass.

Ruben, predictable as clockwork, swung his hand to do just-so as he walked past. You were faster, though, and slapped it away with the flat part of your knife. It made a satisfying _thwack_.

“Jesus!” he said, jumping away with a glare. “You could've taken a finger!”

“There's always next time,” you promised, and sliced a carrot with a pointed _chop_.

“ _Ach_ , be careful -” scolded Nikola, hurrying into the kitchen. He was always a bit more uptight when someone had rented out the private room in the back. Usually small parties or events. Always people with too much money. “Already they want to complain.”

This news was met by groans throughout the kitchen.

“Nora,” was all Mads said, just your name as he gestured to the door with a spatula. You knew the drill.

“What could they possibly be complaining about?” you asked Nikola, untying your stained apron.

“The steak was 'overcooked,'” he noted dryly. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

“And who's _sensitive palate_ have we offended?”

“A 'Mr. D'Antonio' and guest.” Nikola paused just long enough before “guest” that you could read between the lines.

“A woman?”

His shrug was confirmation enough.

“Ugh,” you said, but as the kitchen door closed behind you, you were wise enough to keep the rest of your comments to yourself.

An entire private room for just two people. That wasn't necessarily a new one. You were familiar with the kind of men who liked to come to the expensive restaurant just to flex their wealth and power. Sometimes to impress a woman. Sometimes to impress a colleague. Always to exercise their power over people who had none. People like you.

You suppressed your irritation as you walked into the private room. It wasn't until you were almost at the table that you found yourself staring into a familiar pair of green eyes.

“ _Passerotta!”_ He cried, delighted, and you felt your entire body go numb. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find that "Y/N" is a little clinical and often pulls me out of the story, so I went for a name that reads relatively similar to the word "Name" itself - Nora. If that's a terrible choice, though, let me know, and I'll steer us back into "Y/N" territory. ;)
> 
> *Next chapter is gearing up to be twice as long, so bear with me till I finish it!


	7. 7. pleasantries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is it?” he asked, looking all too pleased with himself, “Nice to see me?”

His laughter echoed in the space. You briefly glanced at the exit, where his silent partner stood watching you with cold eyes and a colder smile. Immediately, you looked away.

You couldn't look at the door, you couldn't look at the man, and so help you God you were _not_ going to look at your shoes. In the end, you focused on the woman at the table. She was beautiful, of course, and _very_ Italian. She practically glittered, both from her expertly applied makeup and the overwhelming amount of jewelry she wore, which clinked delicately at her every move. _Like a windchime,_ you thought placidly.

You had no reason to hate her, not really, no reason for the sudden dislike that bubbled up inside you. But as her hand clasped casually over the man's shoulder, it occurred to you that one, just _one_ of the many baubles she brandished could solve so many problems for you. For your mom.

And then she spoke, and your disdain was cemented.

“This is the one?” she said – to Nikola, not to you – her Italian accent so heavy you almost didn't understand at first. “This _girl_ is responsible for everything we eat tonight?”

You heard Nikola step forward to answer, but you leveled your chin and spoke first.

“Yes,” you said evenly. Full of cool decorum. “I understand the main course was not to your liking.”

The windchime scoffed, clinking again as she gestured to the plate. “You call this a main course?”

When you finally got back to the kitchen, you waited until the door closed behind you before letting yourself deflate.

“How bad?” asked Mads, barely pausing over the grill.

“They want another steak,” you said absently. It hadn't been the woman's words that had shaken you so much as it had been the watchful eyes of the person sitting next to her. Her heavy criticism (lacking in both creativity and impact) was nothing you couldn't handle. And in the end, Nikola had offered them his best Chianti, free of charge, and a second filet. They seemed quite satisfied when you left.

“Cooked special... or _extra special?”_ Mads continued. He turned when you didn't answer, and you must have looked as pale as you felt, because his response was: “Extra _extra_ special, then.” And he spat three times on the grill before adding the steak.

You smiled faintly and stood to go to your station. Gruff as he was, Mads had a soft spot for you, and it made this whole place slightly more bearable.

“You need a minute, maybe a smoke break?” Mads asked, doing his best to be nonchalant, but you could feel him look at you sideways.

“No.” You picked up your knife to continue chopping. Equally nonchalant, you asked, “Hey Mads, you know why women live longer?”

He grinned at the familiar routine, a few others chuckling already. “Why?”

“Because the _knives_ are in the kitchen.” You hacked apart an onion to make your point, earning more laughter. Mads whistled low and turned back to his grill with a grin.

You laughed, too. It was a stupid joke, but it made you feel better. You did, after all, have twelve sharp knives at your disposal.

And, complain though she might, that woman outside was in _your_ restaurant eating _your_ food.

It was a comforting thought, so you let it keep you company. And when you left, it was with eleven of your knives neatly cleaned and tucked away to carry with you. You may not have known how to fight, but a cleaver hacks through bone no matter how you slice it.

It didn't surprise you to see someone waiting in the parking lot.

“No 'hello' for an old friend?” You called to the now familiar, still silent, figure ahead.

She gave you a wide grin, as if laughing at a joke you didn't know, and a mocking wave.

“I guess that'll do,” you muttered, and waved back.

“I wouldn't antagonize her,” said D'Antonio, stepping out of the shadow of an idling SUV. “She does not even say hello to me.”

“You aren't exactly leading by example.” You stopped a few steps short, acknowledged him with a pointed, “Hello again.”

“ _Ciao, passerotta,”_ he purred, and you resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Forgive me if I am out of practice with pleasantries.”

“I'm sure you could manage,” you said. “Most people start with, 'It's nice to see you,' or, 'What a _surprise._ '”

His eyes sparked. “It's nice to see me?” he repeated.

“ _Theoretically_ ,” you started, feeling suddenly ridiculous, “As a pleasantry -”

“Is it?” he asked, looking all too pleased with himself, “Nice to see me?”

You answered decisively and perhaps a bit harshly: “No.”

If his smile faltered, it was almost imperceptible. “What a shame,” he said simply.

“I'm sure your wife is waiting for you,” you said back. He broke into laughter.

“My _wife,_ ” he started, and laughed again. “She is _not_ my wife, nor will she be expecting my company the rest of the evening.”

“- _Someone_ ,” you continued, determined, “I'm sure _someone_ will be waiting for you.” And, because you couldn't help yourself, you added, “Perhaps another waiter to yell at.”

His smile slipped, but he accepted it gracefully. “Ah,” was all he said at first, tilting his head. Then, “I am sorry, _passerrotta_.”

His apology took you by surprise. It was sincere, which left you suddenly embarrassed for making such a barbed comment in the first place.

“You don't have to apologize,” you told him.

“I do,” he said, and you didn't know what to do with that, so you simply nodded. “Besides,” he continued, “You're more likely to get insults than an apology from her.”

That brought a short laugh from you. “I doubt she could insult me if she tried.”

“She _did_ try.”

“You think _that_ was trying?”

He pulled a face. “Well, if you're not satisfied, I'm sure we could get her to come back...”

Another laugh bubbled up, in spite of yourself, and he grinned at you. For a moment, your face felt warm, like the first day of spring.

He seemed to realize something, catch on what you hadn't said. “This happens to you often.”

You sensed the change in tone, but you still answered lightly, “Yes, I often find myself in parking lots chatting with murderers.”

You had meant it as a joke, but the silent figure by the car took a step forward, a warning in her eyes. You jolted back two steps. You had almost forgotten she was there.

D'Antonio _tsked,_ unphased, and turned to rattle off something in Italian to her with a teasing smile. Begrudgingly, almost, she returned a curt laugh, and jolted her chin up with a similar _tsk._

Then she eased off, taking a few steps back to lean against the car. She still kept an eye out, but you no longer felt caught in the gaze of a tightly coiled snake.

It was a nice change. Still, you weren't eager to stay. “I should be heading home.”

He seemed to be expecting this. “Please,” he said, and gestured towards his car.

“I'd prefer to walk,” you said shortly.

He did not expect that. A snort of laughter came from behind him, and he threw his partner a rueful glance before turning back to you. “I would be happy to walk with you, then.”

You sighed and considered this.

“...Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for some more quality time with Santino. :]


	8. 8. someone formidable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You ask a lot of questions.”
> 
> “You avoid a lot of questions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the huge delay on this chapter, everyone! I'm excited to finally have it ready for you. The next couple chapters should come out on a pretty regular basis, as well. 
> 
> It's been a stressful few months for everyone, I think. I accepted my dream job in January, a position that was supposed to last for at least 12 months... and then got laid off last week due to the pandemic. I was a bit of a wreck. I'm still processing. So I need y'all to know how grateful I am for every single kudos and comment. The encouragement means so much to me. 
> 
> I'm so glad I started this story, because it has given me something hopeful and rewarding that I can throw myself into. It sounds weird to me to say that about a piece of writing, but I tend to throw myself into my work, and this gave me somewhere to channel that energy. Now I have almost 25 pages planned out. I've never written 25 pages of anything, but right now, I have 25 pages of This! And I can't wait to share it with all of you!
> 
> I'm sure a lot of you are in the same shitty, stressful situation, so I hope this story gives you some much-needed escapism. 
> 
> And if any of you know any attractive, wealthy, eligible Italians who like amateur bakers... send them my way. ;)

Though you had your misgivings, you gradually found yourself at ease with your company. The feeling was a strange middle ground between safe and suspicious. It was, you eventually decided, better than walking alone.

“I take it you do not live in Madison Park,” he stated as you turned a corner.

“I take it I'd have run into you much sooner if I did.”

He only acknowledged that with a charming smile. _My, what big teeth you have,_ came the errant thought.

“What does it mean - that name you call me?” you asked. _“Passerrotta.”_

He hummed. “You say it so nicely, _ma bella_. Do say it again.”

You gave him a deadpan look and said an altogether very different word.

He barked with laughter, and you heard the sound echoed by the guards following at a distance. “You speak Italian, then?”

“Not really.”

He didn't buy it. “Clearly you know some.”

“...Not the kind that's used in polite company.”

He quirked a brow. “My, my. And where did we learn this language?”

“I work in the kitchens of a high-end Italian restaurant,” you said, and offered him a similar quirked brow. _“_ You do the math.”

He grinned again. “I did not think Nikola would be so prone to outburst.”

“Perhaps we see different sides of him,” you said. Then, because you were curious, “You've met Nikola before?”

“I have.”

“How long have you known him?” you asked.

“Quite some time. I enjoy coming to his restaurant.”

“So you go there regularly?”

He gave you a sidelong glance. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“You avoid a lot of questions.”

He grinned and tilted his head. _Touche._

“I'm just... trying to connect the dots,” you explained after a moment. You weren't sure how to ask what you really wanted to know. _Have you been following me? Did you know I work there?_ “I wasn't expecting to see you tonight.”

“Ah.” He said at last, and he seemed to understand what you were asking. For once, he gave you something of an answer. “It was quite a surprise to see you, as well, _passerrotta._ ”

You nodded, quietly relieved. Perhaps he hadn't had you followed there, then.

It didn't mean he wouldn't have you followed back.

For the second time, you found yourself thinking of Little Red Riding Hood, felt a sudden kinship with the girl who stopped to pick flowers with a friendly wolf.

“I admit, however, I am curious how long you have been at Nikola's,” D'Antonio continued. His Italian accent rolled over the word _curious_ , almost musical in its allure. “Surely I would have seen you there before.”

You didn't bother hiding your suspicion. It was a fairly blunt statement for someone who seemed to prefer talking in circles. _Guess I'm not the only one trying to connect the dots._

Was he asking the same thing you had asked of him? If this was more than just coincidence, if your reappearance in his life was manufactured. A man like him probably had more than one enemy.

You could have used that to your advantage. You could have sidestepped his question, pretended at having something to hide that could make you bigger than what you were. Bigger than just Nora. Less vulnerable than the girl who lives alone with her cat. You would _love_ to be someone formidable, someone with connections, who commanded respect. Someone with value.

But you weren't.

So you answered honestly, because what did it matter. “Two and a half years,” you said finally. “I started in that kitchen as _chef tournant,_ worked my way to the position I have now.”

His eyebrows rose. “Almost three years,” he repeated.

“Two and a _half,_ ” you corrected.

“ _Ah_ ,” he amended easily. “Forgive me, _passerotta,_ I did not realize the importance of six months.”

He was egging you on, and you couldn't help but smile. “Most kitchens require a minimum of a year as _chef tournant_ before you move on,” you explained. “I made it in half that time.”

It was a fact that you were proud of, expressed by the tilt of your chin and the smile across your lips.

“Quite an accomplishment,” he noted. “That must have taken dedication.”

 _Or desperation._ “I love to cook,” you said simply.

You walked in pleasant silence for a moment, the streets gradually growing more busy – or as busy as they got, for that time of night. New York City never slept, but it did slow down sometimes.

Another question occurred to you. “How often do you dine at the restaurant?” you asked.

“Quite often,” he said ambiguously. This earned him a wry look, and he gave a little ground. “Nikola is an old friend. I have been coming to his restaurant since it was founded.”

“Huh,” you said, and considered the information. “How often do you complain?”

He almost took offense to that. “Never.”

You corrected, “Until tonight.”

“I was hardly the one who complained,” he defended.

“And yet.”

He let out a sigh, his green eyes evaluating you. “If it is any condolence, I do not make it a habit of yelling at waiters,” he said, then corrected himself, “Or chefs.”

A smile pulled at your lips, and you accepted this with a nod. “I suppose that explains why I haven't seen you before. I only leave the kitchen if someone asks to speak with a chef.”

“Ah,” He said for the second time, “What a pity.”

This brought your eyes back to him, your smile lingering. _What a pity._

You stopped a few blocks later, bringing D'Antonio to an unexpected halt. You were just before the corner of a busy intersection, and you felt the discomfort of his guards, fidgeting in their well-tailored suits. _Too many people._ Good.

“You didn't mention you live so close to Manhattan,” he said, and though his tone was light, you knew that underneath was a heavy suspicion.

“I don't." You motioned your head toward the street. "The Lexington station is just around this corner.” But when he nodded and moved to step past you, you placed a hand on his arm. “It's located in front of one of the largest police precincts in the city.”

His eyes flicked to his guards, betraying a moment of caution. That particular precinct was usually swarming with cops, and, to boot, it usually shared offices with local FBI. You did not expect that fact to escape him.

But when he met your eyes again, you didn't see the anger or suspicion you were expecting. What you saw was... sparkling. Magnetic.

And perhaps you felt held by his gaze, because you didn't step away when you finally said, “Goodnight, then, Mr. D'Antonio.”

He _hummed_ at that, took your hand to clasp in his own. “I am at a loss,” he said, “You know my name, but I do not know yours.”

The smile on your lips grew. “I don't believe that for a second.”

He gave you one of his charming grins, and let you go.

“Have a good night, Nora.” 

You might have hesitated, might have let your gaze linger before you stepped away. Then you turned the corner and let yourself get lost in the crowd.

_My, what big teeth you have._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *note: I have no idea how a Michelin-level kitchen works and am learning about the various positions as I go along. :D


	9. 9. second shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So where does any girl go when she needs advice? She goes to her mother.

The feeling of paranoia that enveloped you as you sat on the subway was a strange one. In all likelihood, someone had been sent to follow you by now. It would be foolish to assume otherwise. You hated the idea of it, the insidious anxiety. Your eyes jolted up whenever the subway came to a stop and someone got on.

And yet... you enjoyed that he might be thinking of you. Was there harm in that? You weighed the idea. Amid the anxiety of each stop, you watched the crowd for those familiar green eyes. Waited for a waft of cologne, for the crisp, tailored suit and broad shoulders to sit down across from you. _Passerotta_ , you heard him say in your mind's eye, and you couldn't decide where to place the feeling it gave you.

In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, you had already decided not to go home. You wouldn't be on this subway line if you had. You couldn't bring yourself to go back to your apartment. Not alone. Not after talking for so long with a criminal. He knew your _face_. You felt the warmth of his hands, his soft leather gloves clasped around your fingers... You shoved your hands into your pockets.

Ultimately, the feeling of fear won out. He was dangerous. Charming, but dangerous. No amount of playful conversation could win out the fact that he could have you killed. Easily. Brutally.

The subway bumped, and you shivered.

So where does any girl go when she needs advice? She goes to her mother.

Shady Oaks Assisted Living had the kind of name you expected to see in a comic book. It sounded too perfect to be real. You had laughed when you read the brochure – specifically, the price – and then Mom read it, and she had laughed, too. You remembered because it was one of the last times you had heard that particular sound.

The place was alright. Nicer than you could afford, really, but they had cut you a deal.

The radiator in your mom's room made a clatter to wake the devil, and you turned it off immediately, making a mental note bring her a space heater. _At least it's not that cold tonight._

“Hi, Mom,” you said, because you knew she was awake.

You heard her shift and reach for the light. “Hi, dear,” she said. The lamp lit up her brown eyes, clear and warm, and you felt instantly reassured. “What a racket that thing makes.”

“I'll see if I can get the mechanic to come by.” You sat down by her bed, picked up a couple discarded pens off her sheets. “You're gonna roll over and stab yourself one day.”

“Old habits,” she said, pulling off her glasses. “I'm always up late, anyways. And I've been bribing one of the nurses with vanilla wafers. She's got me last on her morning rounds, so I can sleep in as much as I want.” She gave you a conspiratorial wink.

You grinned, picked up her notebook. “Any progress?”

“Not yet.” She took the pad from you, flipped through it. “Just waiting for the right kind of inspiration.”

“Well, that's not in short stock. I might have a story for you.”

“Woah, baby.” She leaned forward, encouraging. “Have you finally met someone?”

“ _Finally_?” you asked, mock-insulted.

“I'm just saying, you work too much. Seems like the closest thing to a man in your life is that cat.”

“Spoons is better than any man I've met,” you pointed out.

“Can't argue there, sister.”

You grinned. “Do you wanna hear this story or what?”

“Do I have a choice?”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh, then fell silent. Suddenly, you weren't sure how much you wanted to tell her.

She placed her hand on yours. “What's eatin' you?”

“I... saw something,” you began, turning your hand over in hers. “I saw something I shouldn't have.”

The rest came out in bits and pieces. You glossed over the gore, sugar coated the terror, but the truth of the story was still there. You had caught the attention of someone dangerous, and you knew that that was bad, but... but was it? Was it entirely bad?

“Is she pretty?” your mom asked when you were done, and you blinked at her.

“Sorry?”

“Your romantic lead. Is she pretty?” Your mom's eyes focused on you, that clear, warm brown. If you hadn't known any better, you would be so sure she had understood you.

“I don't... That's not the point, Ma...”

“Hm. Rookie mistake, she's got to be pretty.” Her hand pulls away from yours, and she jots something down. “First question my daughter always asks me, without fail. 'Is she pretty?'” Your mom chuckles, leans into her pillows. “Kid's gonna break my heart when she grows up, I just know it. You've got to meet Nora when she, uh... when she comes in...”

Confusion settled around your mom's face, and you could see the lost connections as the years stacked up against her. You bit your lip, hard.

“Sure,” you said, and she focused on you again. You smiled. “She'll be here soon. You should get some sleep, for now. Want me to turn this light off for you?”

The confusion cleared, and your mom nodded.

“Thanks, hun. Nice talkin'.”

You pulled your apron off the chair and closed the door behind you. You had another shift to work, and it wouldn't get done any faster if you stopped to cry now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: If you do not have a home-made mother figure to relate to, store bought is fine. :)


	10. 10. compliments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gold coin rolled around in the bottom of the envelope, and you picked it up to stare at it. You had never seen anything like it before.

By the time you got back to the restaurant the next morning, you were exhausted, but that was nothing new. You slipped into the bathroom to wash your face and throw on a new shirt. You liked getting in early. Before anyone else. The sun slanted through the front window and made everything wistful, golden, like it was there just for you.

By the time the rest of the staff started filtering in, you had unpacked your knives, cleaned your station, and twisted your unwashed hair into a neat little bun.

“Nora,” Nikola called, an espresso in one hand and an envelope in the other. “Someone left this for you.”

“Oh, thank god,” you said, and reached for the espresso.

“ _Ach -”_ Nikola swatted your hand with the envelope until you took it with a wry grin. “Don't go telling your friends to be sending birthday cards and whatnot, _capiche?_ We don't need your little pen pals.”

“Yeah, okay, boss,” you quipped. It was nowhere near your birthday.

The envelope itself was high quality, the kind of thick paper that almost feels like cotton. Your name was scrawled across the front in fluid cursive, an elegant touch that left little question as to who sent it.

You shoved it in your pocket. _So much for a peaceful start to the day_.

It never really lasted, anyways. A few hours later and you were caught in the same non-stop bustle and stress that always overtook the kitchen. Things moved quickly, and when you weren't taking orders, you were prepping for future orders. When you weren't prepping for future orders, you were cleaning your station. When you weren't cleaning your station, you were swatting away Ruben's groping hand and threatening to hold it under the deep fryer.

You were the kind of tired that caffeine couldn't touch. You kept moving, regardless, never letting yourself lose momentum. It was like this most days. It was like this most weeks, and most months...

By the time you got home, you could have fallen asleep standing up. Probably did, once or twice, on the subway. You had given a brief thought to whether you should head home at all, whether you should still be afraid of being followed, but your exhaustion had won out. You were too tired to care.

You locked your door, blearily shoved the chair against it, and fell face-first onto your bed. Dozing already, you kicked off your pants and tossed them across the room. Something slid out against the floor.

 _The letter_ , you remembered with a jolt, and pushed yourself up. Spoons squeaked in protest. She had already started plodding across your back.

The envelope waited for you on the floor, crisp and pristine as though it hadn't spent all day in your back pocket. You sat down again, turned it over in your hands. Experimentally, you lifted it to your nose. The faintest scent of cologne... you pulled it away, feeling foolish.

It probably wasn't too late to pretend you never received it. Ignore it, and continue on with life. Your mind turned over the options as you turned over the letter in your hands. What terrible things could be inside...

Spoons bashed her head into it, pushing the paper clear out of your hands with a demanding _meow._ She rubbed her face against your palm, the message clear.

You sighed, put the letter down, and pet her instead. You were rewarded with a rumbling purr. “Next time, I'll bring you leftover salmon instead,” you said, settling into bed. “Alllll the leftover salmon. As much as you can eat...” She purred louder and flopped against you, clearly pleased.

“We'll have all the salmon we want one day, you'll see. And steak, and caviar... just you and me...”

When you woke up the next morning, she was still in the same place. As was the letter on the bed next to you. Dimly, you picked it up, still curled up in your sheets. Whatever horrors were in that envelope surely couldn't hurt you while you were so comfortable... It was still dark, and it took your eyes a moment to adjust as you opened it.

_Holy shit._

You jolted upright in bed. Spoons adjusted herself with a grumble.

_Holy_ _shit!_

Three hundred and fifty dollars.

You counted it again. Three _hundred_ and _fifty_ dollars. You cried out, then clamped a hand over your mouth and laughed. Cash. So much cash.

A gold coin rolled around in the bottom of the envelope, and you picked it up to stare at it. You had never seen anything like it before. It must have been an antique, or some sort of collector's item.

The last thing in the envelope was a note, with that familiar elegant script across it. _My compliments to the chef,_ it read simply. _I look forward to dining again soon._

Two weeks later, he was at the restaurant.


	11. any rational person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your outrage was immediate. Your response was not. You turned sharply, striving for the words to channel your simmering fury – the door clicked as it locked behind him.

“He wants to complain,” Nikola had told you. You only nodded. You didn't ask who 'he' was. Whatever strange mix of emotions you felt – trepidation, anticipation, excitement – surprise was not among them. You had been watching the schedule.

It was what any rational person would have done. _The man had left a three hundred dollar tip._

Three hundred and fifty, to be exact. And you needed every penny. This is what you had told yourself, as you snooped through the reservations each week.

 _D'Antonio, S. – Two, Sunday..._ You had read his name twice when you found it, eyes scouring over the first initial as though it would eventually reveal a name. The single letter taunted you. A thousand names could start with an “S,” but as you mentally checked off a list of _Sam'_ s and _Solomon_ 's, you struggled to find one that suited. It was still in the back of your mind when Nikola ushered you toward the table.

For the second time, you found yourself locked with a familiar, piercing gaze. You had forgotten about the flecks of amber in his eyes, which caught the light and flashed gold even at a distance.

You had also forgotten to speak, but his date was happy to fill the silence. You hadn't even reached the table before she voiced her complaints, oblivious to the look that had transpired between the two of you.

“I cannot stand this - did you pour it out of a can? It's _barely_ _hot_.” The woman was all tight angles and tight skin, with a searingly high-pitched voice that wrenched you away from D'Antonio's eyes. She rattled off something angry in Italian. With emphasis, she stirred and dropped her spoon.

You blinked, caught in the blaze of this woman's reaction. Her nostrils flared. You realized she had paused in the expectation that you would respond. You inhaled to speak, and she immediately cut you off, words coming out at relentless speed. The soup was too cold, the bread was too hot, the wine was like vinegar...

You licked your lips, released a silent sigh. _So that's how this night is going to go._ You met D'Antonio's eyes again, raised your eyebrows in an unspoken question. His shoulders lifted in an apologetic shrug.

“...And do you have _anything_ to say for this disaster?”

You started to answer again, but she predictably launched into another tirade. You had the good sense to appear chastened, composed... anything except amused. Whoever this woman was, she had the lung capacity and the dramatic timbre of an operatic soprano.

You risked a glance around the room. You were starting to recognize a couple of the men in suits. There was, of course, one that was more conspicuous than most, tattooed and characteristically silent. She was studiously observing the floor. Her lips twitched, then pressed together, and as her eyes flicked conspiratorially to you, you realized she was holding back laughter.

Suddenly, you were struggling with the same emotion.

“...a disgrace, and I simply had _higher_ expectations. Wouldn't you agree, _Santi?”_

Your eyes snapped to D'Antonio, utterly delighted, and sweet victory was confirmed as his eyes briefly fluttered closed. _S. D'Antonio_ had been a short lived mystery, it would seem. _Wouldn't you agree, Santi?_

He gave his date a reserved answer, containing his exasperation, and said something that briefly soothed her dramatic critique. Still, she was not long distracted from her spotlight. Her tirade shortly resumed.

You managed to bury your smile until the woman was done. D'Antonio had, at last, interjected to ask after a dessert wine. Nikola sang its praises, recommended excellent pairings. You took your cue to leave, excused by a waive of the _ma_ _ît_ _re'_ s hand, and politely extracted yourself. You had made it through the situation without uttering a single word. _Small mercies_ , you told yourself.

Repressing a smile, you channeled your focus into the dessert for the last part of the evening. It was an easy distraction. Pastry dough was no simple task, but you always found a simple satisfaction in mastering it. The recommended wine had been a Sauvignon Blanc – bright, aromatic, fruity... Your mille-fuielle was the obvious choice, glazed in a velvety white chocolate to smooth over the dry, sweet wine. Layered underneath were blanched strawberries, a cream infused with the Sauvignon, and a few rose petals for decoration. The pastry itself was crisp and buttery, the kind of satisfying texture that made the mouth water before the strawberries, cream, and chocolate filled in. It was perfect. You added a spiral of white chocolate among the rose petals, a musical shape, the final note to complete a symphony.

By the time the plate was sent out, you had almost forgotten who it was going to. _At least one of them will appreciate it,_ you reminded yourself.

You spent the next hour helping to close up the kitchen. Mads left with an easy wave, and you waited a good five minutes before packing up your knives as well. As usual, you were the last one out - or so you had assumed. Nikola stood by the door, agitated, tapping something in his hands. His eyes judged.

Another envelope. He gestured with a flick of his wrist, tapping his foot. “I do not care _what_ you get up to on your own time,” he said tightly, “But we do not provide those kinds of _services_ at my restaurant. _Capiche?"_

Your mouth went dry. You knew what was in the envelope, you were no fool. But you had been too wrapped up in your own ambition to consider how it looked to anyone else. “-Yes,” you managed.

He pressed the paper into your hands and said, “I would rather be short a cook than have a whore in my kitchen.”

Your outrage was immediate. Your response was not. You turned sharply, striving for the words to channel your simmering fury – the door clicked as it locked behind him.

You nearly chucked a cutting board after him. “ _Coward,”_ you finally said, and envisioned the word burning into the door where he stood. _Fool,_ came the unspoken response inside your head. You breathed in deeply.

Worse than your anger was the sickening feeling that you had done something wrong. That Nikola was right. Last time, D'Antonio had been waiting for you in the parking lot. Would he be there again? Did he have... expectations? You hadn't thought that hard about this, but now that you did – what man gave away that kind of money without expecting something in return? _Christ, what have I gotten myself into..._

Lost in your thoughts, preparing for an unpleasant encounter, you stepped outside, and the _click_ of a lighter sounded right next to you. You damn near jumped out of your skin. Close enough to touch, a cigarette burned orange, illuminating first a tattooed hand and then a face. Slowly, silent as usual, D'Antonio's guard exhaled a plume of smoke. You swallowed your heart. She raised her hand to wave.

“Hi,” you said, then turned to close the door. The door that was open. The door that was open, and opened directly to the kitchen. The kitchen where you had just argued with your boss. Anyone could have overheard.

You couldn't hide the question on your face when you turned to her again. She shrugged. Casual. A wave of embarrassment joined your anxiety. She tilted her head toward a dark corner of the parking lot, where her boss stood waiting, and your heart jumped again.

You swallowed it, then took your time locking up.

“ _Ciao, bella_ ,” he said when you finally approached. “It's nice to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

“What stops you?” His charming smile was easy to resist, for once.

“I can't accept this,” you said bluntly, awkwardly, holding out the envelope.

He glanced at the paper, then at you, taken aback. “Is it not enough? I understand it is the standard in America. Always leave a tip, yes...?” He glanced back at his men by the car, who nodded in the affirmative.

“So you always tip with hundreds of dollars?”

“Only for memorable service.”

“I'm not sure I can provide _that kind_ of memorable service.”

He laughed, a smile still playing at his lips.

“I can't accept this,” you repeated. “I don't know what you told Nikola, but I don't want any part of it.”

“What Nikola told me.” He stepped closer, but still did not take the envelope. “You will have to be more specific.”

“ _Please,_ just take it,” you said, and perhaps it was the desperation that edged into your voice, but his smile slipped downward. “I've worked so hard for this, and now they'll all think... Look, I had to fight for every inch of respect in that place. And I _need_ this job. I can't afford to compromise that. You have to understand.”

His hand wrapped around yours, finally taking the letter, and you focused on his gloves rather than look him in the eye. “ _Hm,_ ” he said, tucking the envelope into his jacket with a cursory movement. “What exactly did Nikola say to you?”

You blinked at him, suddenly aware of how close he was, the softness of his voice, and eventually formed an answer. “He made some implications. Which I would rather not repeat.”

“So I am beginning to understand.” For a moment, his eyes seemed lost somewhere over your shoulder, as if someone had waved him down. When you turned, his partner was stamping out her cigarette against the asphalt.

“I can assure you he is entirely wrong,” he said, drawing your attention back. And there it was again, that earnest expression, some incalculable shift in his facade, like sparks of sunlight through green leaves.

At a loss, you nodded. There were a variety of emotions to sort out, but the one you immediately landed on was relief. The money was not what you thought it was. Or, to be specific, it was not what Nikola thought it was.

D'Antonio had stepped away, back towards his car, and his entourage seemed to be arranging to leave. You considered the time of night and the long walk home.

You asked if he felt like an evening stroll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a wild few months, holy shit. I'm so happy to finally have this update ready for you!! 
> 
> And there is more to come. I know I've been quiet for a while, but this story has never fully left me. I keep thinking about it. I even made a playlist for it that I listen to regularly, when I need a bit of inspiration. These are trying times, so I hope you all enjoy this next chunk of the story!!
> 
> As usual, thank you all so damn much for the comments and kudos. I look forward to any feedback you've got for this chapter!


End file.
